SONGS  OF 
GOOD  FIGHTING 


BY  EUGENE  R  WHITE 


GIFT  OF 


*7> 


A     (MA*,  frnu 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 


Songs 

of 
Good  Fighting 

By 

Eugene  R.  White 


LAMSON,  WOLFFE  AND  COMPANY 
BOSTON,  NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


Copyright,  1898, 
By  Lamson,  Wolffe  and  Company. 

A II  rights  reserved* 


CONTENTS 

DEDICATION,  n 

A  SONG  OF  GOOD  FIGHTING,  13 

A  BUCCANEER  CHORUS,  1 7 

THE  LEES  OF  THE  WINE  OF  WRATH,  20 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  MEN  OF  TEACH  (1718),  23 

OF  THE  LOST  SHIP,  26 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  LULL  IN  THE  FIGHT,  28 

THE  SONG  OF  MORGAN'S  MEN  (1670),  31 

A  SONG  OF  THREE  SEASONS,  33 

THE  SONG  OF  SAWKINS'  MEN  (1680),  35 

A  SONG  OF  THE  FREEBOOTERS,  37 

A  BUCCANEER  TOAST,  39 

OF  THE  GREAT  LAKES  AND  THE  SEA,  41 

ENVOY,  48 


435402 


To  H.  P.  T. 


DEDICARE 

WE  are  they  that  seek  the  Clew,  riding 
for  the  Name, 
Past  the  wayward   winds   that   blew, 

past  the  lures  of  Fame  ; 
Men  fail  and  the  words  of  men,  shall  deeds  of 

men  fail,  too  ? 

A  rouse  for  the  Endless  Errantry,  we  that  seek 
the  Clew  ! 


For  the  Name  thrice-murmured  in  our 

ears 

Is  a  spur  ye  never  knew, 
Who  listed  laggard  through  the  Years, 

Nor  sought  to  gain  the  Distant  View. 

Leave  Love  and  the  Lover — 'tis  ours  to  discover. 
Though  Death  be  the  portion  of  this  our  Long 

Quest ; 

So  in  with  the  rowel,  out  with  the  avowal, 
The  Oath  of  the  men  who  know  riding  is  best. 

Though  the  Clew,  mayhappen,  long  ago 
Was  passed  in  the  Vale  of  Youth, 

Yet  yonder  hill,  for  all  ye  know, 
May  bear  a  sign  of  the  Utter  Truth. 


ii 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

Lay  the  lashing  by— never !  we  still  seek  the 

lever 
To  pry   the  Great  Secret  from  God's  granite 

lips; 
By  the  Oath  we  essayed  it,  by  the  Name  we 

ha'  prayed  it, 
Forsworn  in  the  service  of  Blood  Fellowships. 

Though  the  marrowed  bones  of  the  early 

Band 

Long  since  have  ashed  to  dust, 
We'll   reach  at   least    what  they    have 

spanned^ 
By  the  zeal  of  the  riding-lust. 

We  are  they  that  seek  the  Clew,  riding  for  the 

Name, 
Past  the   wayward  winds   that   blew,  past  the 

lures  of  Fame ; 
Men  fail  and  the  words  of  men,  shall  deeds  of 

men  fail,  too? 
A  rouse  for  the  Endless  Errantry,  we  that  seek 

the  Clew. 

— 1898 


12 


A   SONG   OF  GOOD   FIGHTING 

AND  it's  oh  !  for  the  days  when  Men  were 
Men,  and  Souls  were  feoffed  to  Flesh, 
And  the  raucous  call  of  a  sea-born  brawl, 

with  the  gray  winds  running  fresh, 
Thronged  through  the  hearts  of  Saxon  men  as 

they  aimed  the  Death-stroke  true ; 
Drank  manhood  up  from  the  Battle-cup — the 
wine  of  the  gods'  own  brew. 

O  goodly  men  of  other  days,  who  died  in  a 

well-fought  fight, 
Whatever    may    your   lives    have   been,    your 

deaths,  at  least,  were  bright ! 
And  blood,  they  say,  will  purge  away  the  smear 

of  blot  and  stain, 
And  the  Seraph  looks  at  record  books  washed 

clean  by  a  crimson  rain. 

If  justice  meed  or  Christian  creed  has  pulled 

Heaven's  latchkey  in, 
There's  Woden's  hall   will  hold   you  all  who 

died  in  the  Good  Fight's  din. 
You  are  far  and  away  too  great  to  stay  with  the 

gentle,  pious  folk 
Who   hoarded   Life   with  a  niggard  soul  and 

cringed  before  the  Stroke. 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

There  may  be  pits  of  molten  flame  for  Cozeners 

and  Thieves, 
And   Burning   Spits    for    Hypocrites,    in   the 

Gath'ring  of  the  Sheaves  ; 
But  none  for  those  who  fell  in  fight,  and  used 

their  ebbing  breath, 
Not  in  a  useless  prayer  to  God,  but  a  Saxon 

curse  for  Death. 


Weak-watered,  in  these  petty  days,  it  is  yet  in 

the  heart  of  Man — 
Its   roots,  deep   set,  by  blood  were  wet  since 

ever  the  Earth  began — 
This  love  for  the  sight  of  goodly  fight ;  and, 

whether  on  land  or  sea, 
The  Valiant  Kin  are  lusting  yet  for  the  Strong 

Man's  empery. 


It  was  there  in   the  day  the  Cavemen  strove 

with  hatchets  they  struck  from  stone ; 
It  rang   through  the  strife  of  early  life  with 

crunching  of  ax-clove  bone. 
It  was  writ  on  the  face  of  the  Teuton  race — on 

their  muscles  and  arms  and  thews ; 
When  the  Vikings  drave  through  the  Northern 

Seas  it  sang  to  the  spray-dashed  crews. 


A  Song  of  Good  Fighting 

It  was  there  in  the  hardy  English  Isle,  it  rang 

in  the  twang  of  the  yew, 
And  the  arrows  whistled  a  glad  refrain  from  the 

bows  which  the  archers  drew ; 
And  when  Spanish  hosts,  like  baffled  ghosts, 

flapped  tattered  sails  to  Spain, 
The  chorus  rose  with  a  mighty  swing  o'er  the 

heaps  of  the  Popish  Slain. 


Let  wan-faced  Peace  with  mild   increase  bid 

Janus'  gates  be  barred ; 
Wherever  the  blood  flows  red  in  hearts,  where 

muscles  there  be  and  hard, 
There's  an   unknown   stir  for  the  days   that 

were ;  and  the  tale  of  a  fight  fought  true 
Still  makes  the  Saxon  blood  to  dance  to  the 

tune  their  Fathers  knew. 


And  when   the   summoned  lines   of  Souls  up 

through  the  Ether  swim, 
And  herd  before  the  Great  White  Throne  and 

reach  to  the  River's  rim, 
Then  raise  your  song  o'er  the  Pallid  Throng 

that  cringe  in  white  dismay- 
March  boldly  to  the  sight  of  Him  as  though  to 

an  earthly  fray. 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

Stand   forth   on  that   day,  Sturdy   Men,  who 

knew  no  gospel  of  hate, 
E'en   as  you  lived,    so   stand   ye   forth,  who 

cavilled  with  none  save  Fate  ! 
When  the  Prayerful  Horde  have  their  reward, 

and  the  Good  have  gained  their  Grails, 
Will  naught  else  weigh  on  that  Last  Day  with 

the  One  who  holds  the  Scales  ? 

— 1896 


16 


T 


A   BUCCANEER   CHORUS 

HEY  say  the  Devil  has  fled  from  Heh 

To  sail  on  the  Spanish  Main — 
By  the  yoke  of  the  Spell,  the  Folk  say  well 
When  they  say  that  the  Devil  has  fled 
from  Hell. 


From  out  the  Sea-Born  Sunset  is  cast  a  crimson 

tinge— 

With  a  Yo,  and  a  Ho,  from  a  Band  of  Four- 
score Men — 
The    Gates    of    Hell    yawn    redly   upon   the 

World's  grey  hinge, 
And  we  sail  to  the  Postern  to  see  the  Devils 

cringe — 

With  a  Yo,  and  a  Ho,  from  a  Band  of  Four- 
score Men. 

The  Sea  moans  Dead  Men's  Dirges,  Shapes 

muster  Soul  on  Soul — 
With  a  Yo,  and  a  Ho,  from  a  Band  of  Four- 
score Men — 

There  creeps  a  Cloud  before  us,  an  ashen  aureole, 
The  Beast  of  Doom  has  littered,  and  Morgan  is 
her  foal ! — 

With  a  Yo,  and  a  Ho,  from  a  Band  of  Four- 
score Men. 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

And  Life  is  but  a  Tavern,  so  let  us  stay  and 

Sup— 
With  a  Yo,  and  a  Ho,  from  a  Band  of  Four- 

score  Men — 
And  Death  is  in  the  Taproom  and  Death  is  in 

the  Cup, 
And  Death's  a  Merry  Gentleman,  so  drink  the 

potion  up — 
With  a  Yo,  and  a  Ho,  from  a  Band  of  Four- 

score  Men. 


For  though  Life  is  worth  the  Living,  when  Life 

is  on  the  Sea — 

With  a  Yo,  and  a  Ho,  from  a  Band  of  Four- 
score Men — 

And  it's  worth  the  Devil's  forfeit  to  let  the  arm 
swing  free, 

And  show  the  Spanish  Dastards  what  Men  the 

Rovers  be — 

With  a  Yo,  and  a  Ho,  from  a  Band  of  Four- 
score Men. 

Come,  Death,  you  royal  Gamester,  and  have  a 

final  bout — 

With  a  Yo,  and  a  Ho,  from  a  Band  of  Four- 
score Men — 


18 


A  Buccaneer  Chorus 


For  we   are  growing  weary  of  the  Revel  and 
the  Rout, 

And  while  the  Dice  are  rattling,  go  Snuff  the 

Candle  out — 

With  a  Yo,  and  a  Ho,  from  a  Band  of  Four- 
score Men. 


They  say  the  Devil  has  fled  from  Hell 

To  sail  on  the  Spanish  Main — 
By  the  Thrice-sworn  Spell,  the  Folk  say 

well 
When  they  say  that  the  Devil  has  fled  from 

Hell. 

—1896 


THE  LEES  OF  THE  WINE 
OF  WRATH 

THEY  said  that  we  should  see  it  in  the 
Parting  of  the  Ways  ; 
They  said  that  we  should  find  it  in   the 

Rounding  of  the  Days  ; 
They  said  an  end' s  to  everything,  though  paths 

are  often  hid  ; 

They  said  that  we  should  know  it — 
And  we  did  ! 

Beyond  the  sea,  where  the  shadows  tryst,  where 
the  void  has  whelped  its  monsters  grim, 

Where  Hate  and  Spleen  stand  high  and  keen 
to  gorge  on  the  marrow  of  splintered  limb  ; 

There  went  we  mute  and  masterless,  there 
stood  we  face  to  face  with  Him. 

'Twas  not  for  us  to  feel  a  fear,  it  was  we  who 

had  hewed  a  narrow  path, 
Through  the  sundered  ken  of  what  were  men, 

a  chrism  of  blood  for  the  new-born' s  bath  ; 
We  had  slain  and  hewed,  and  hewed  and  slain, 

till  the  Fiends  slunk  by  in  baffled  wrath. 

And  God  had  passed  for  a  hollow  jape,  and 
as  for  his  coystrels,  men, 


20 


The  Lees  of  the  Wine  of  Wrath 


They  are  panders  and  punks,  ask  their  head- 
less trunks — we  have  met  them  one  to  ten. 

Bow  to  the  left,  bow  to  the  right,  down  the 
center  and  back  again  ! 

We  left  a  town  where  the  sun  stood  slant  on 

the  fardled  dead  in  the  whetted  square — 
The  murrey  sun  on  a  cruise  foredone  fluxed 

the  West  to  a  tawny  glare, 
And  a  cozening  wind  coaxed  at  our  sails,  as 
we  set  forth  to  Otherwhere. 

Three  years  have  gone  since  that  fell  day, 
three  years  have  passed  o'er  a  fated  crew  ; 

Each  year  is  wet,  should  we  forget,  with 
goodly  blood,  with  venomed  rue  ; 

Each  year  the  Fiend  foreflocks  his  souls,  his 
richest  tithe  and  revenue. 

Hard-hunted  by  the  Spawn  of  Death,  each  to 

his  end  stood  strait  and  fair, 
Not  I,  nor  you,  but  the  Devil  knew,  the  end 

of  them  foregathered  there, 
Elbowed  by  the  ghosts  of  them,  the  fardled 

dead  in  the  whetted  square  ! 

Some  were  slain  by  their  fellows'  knives,  for 
a  wench's  leer  in  Jamaica's  stews  ; 


21 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 


Some  swung  in  chains  where  the  sponging 
rains  flushed  their  flesh  which  the  crows 
refuse  ; 

Some  were  found  in  their  sodden  beds,  their 
eyes  agape  with  Hell-hearth  news. 

What  hate-born  bolt  of  this  Thy  wrath,  awaits 

for  me,  the  laggard  one  ? 
What  baleful  end  shall  Thou  then  send,  to 

him  forespent,  for  his  race  is  done, 
Whose   heart   by   hetcheling  teeth  of  Fate, 

already  teased  and  torn  and  spun  ? 

Come  as  it  may,  not  yet  I  pray  churlish- 
kneed  to  thwart  the  stroke, 

Not  fearful-eyed  will  he  abide,  the  lone  last 
man  of  the  Sturdy  Folk — 

Yet  what  was  that  which  crept  by  then  ? — 
Ha'  mercy  Lord  !  was  it  Thou  who  spoke  ? 

They  said  that  we  should  see  it  in  the  Parting  of 

the  Ways; 
They  said  that  we  should  find  it  in  the  Rounding 

of  the  Days  ; 
They  said  an  end' '  s  to  everything — to  band,  to 

troop,  to  crew  ; 

They  said  that  we  should  know  it — 
And  we  do  I 


22 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MEN  OF  TEACH 
1718 

THE  Townfolk  talk  of  living— but  we  have 
sailed  the  sea  ; 
And  out  upon  the  Niderings  who  strut 

in  lace  and  state — 
It's  a  sorry  life  I  wot  ye,  in  the  town  where 

wenches  got  ye ; 
On  the  sea  the  storms  allot  ye 
The  bludgeonings  of  fate. 

And  oh!  the  glory  of  it,   a  wrathful  God 

above  it 
May  trumpet  doleful  thunders  at  the  crime 

of  being  free  ; 
A  curse  for  churl  and  craven,  a  rot  for  home 

and  haven. 

For  we  have  got  dominion  on  the  Great 
Grey  Sea. 

The  Poets  sing  of  Loving — but  we  have  sailed 

the  sea, 
And  no   low-louting  jobernoll  can   sing  us 

what  is  best. 
Here's  one  to  hurr  and  hale  you,  here's  one 

that  will  avail  you, 
And  which  will  never  fail  you 
Foregathered  at  her  breast. 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

Your  wench    may    count   her   dozen— but 

here 's  a  dame  to  cozen 
No  weak  and  puling    little    minx,    no 

simperer  is  she. 

Out  with  your  powdered  faces,  here's  one 
for  Man' s  embraces, 
The  mightiest  of  mistresses,  the    Great 
Grey  Sea  / 

The  Preachers  prate  of  Godcraft — but  we  have 

sailed  the  sea ; 
A  rot  upon  such  canters — here's  the  good 

sea  running  wide. 
'Fore  God's  wrath  let  them  falter,  and  drone 

their  mournful  psalter, 
Though  we  may  greet  the  halter, 
We  lived  before  we  died. 

So  let  our  hearts  beat  faster,  there's  none 

that  we  call  Master  ; 
No  cringe  or  crawl  in  humble  wise,  nor 

bow  on  bended  knee  ; 

Salute    no    God  nor  Demon — but  knotty- 
hearted  seamen, 

We  burn  our  red  path  Deathwards  on  the 
Great  Grey  Sea. 


The  Song  of  the  Men  of  Teach. 

This  is  the  End  of  Living — to  sail  upon  the 

sea, 
With  head  and  breast  uncovered  to  catch  the 

stinging  spray. 
A  thirst,  in  blood  we'll  slake  it ;'  a  galleon, 

we'll  take  it ;  a  colony,  we'll  break  it — 
And  then  to  sail  away. 

So  sail  we  on  together,  no  tie  our  hearts  can 

tether, 
And  knave  or  coystrel,  gentleman,  whatever 

we  may  be, 
We've    slain    the    Spanish    bastard,    we've 

fought  and  cut  and  mastered, 
The  world  may  be   our  headstone  in  the 
Great  Grey  Sea. 


25 


OF  THE   LOST  SHIP 

WHAT   has  become  of  the   good  ship 
Kite? 

Where  is  her  hull  of  chosen  oak  ? 
Who  were  the  Victors,  what  the  Fight  ? 

The  Old  Wives — whom  did  they  invoke, 
That  should  tell  them  so  uncannily : 

"Fell  through  a  crack  in  the  Floor  of  the  Sea  ? ' ' 

"Trafficked  with  death  in  a  cruise  foredone," 
The  Preachers  drone  to  the  Salem  Folk, 

When  the  Sea  has  swallowed  up  the  Sun 

And  the  white  gulls  glint — was  it  they  who 
spoke  ? 

Wes' -Sou' -West  from  the  Devil's  Quay: 

<  'Fell  through  a  crack  in  the  Floor  of  the  Sea?" 

Of  the  old-time  Band  there's  not  a  man 

Who  has  ever  told  how  the  ship  went  down. 

Were  they  marked  by  God  with  the  fearsome 

ban? 
Butchered  they  priests  in  a  sun -white  town  ? 

Do  they  harry  Hell  where  they  may  be : 

"Fell  through  a  crack  in  the  Floor  of  the  Sea  ?" 


26 


Of  the  Lost  Ship 


Though  ye  searched  the  West  to  the  guttering 
sun 

Or  the  East  till  the  baffled  lights  burn  black, 
Or  North  to  the  bergs  till  the  South  be  won 

The  changeling  shadows  answer  back, 
And  their  trembling  lips  pale  piteously : 

'  'Fell  through  a  crack  in  the  Floor  of  the  Sea?" 


And  when  the  great  grim  Finger  becks 
The  whining  Seas  from  their  ancient  bed, 

Shall  some  tongue   speak  from  the  world-old 

wrecks 
To  read  the  log  of  the  Thwarted  Dead  ? 

Is  there  never  an  end  on  the  mystery : 

<  'Fell  through  a  crack  in  the  Floor  of  the  Sea?" 

—189? 


27 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  LULL  IN 
THE  FIGHT. 


T 


HE  liquor  brewed  in  the  vats  of  Spring 

Has  aged  with  the  ageing  year 
{Here's  to  the   strength  its  age    shall 

bring) 
Up  /  For  the  draught  is  here  ! 


So  here's  to  the  Name,  it's  ever  the  same, 
And    out    on    the   cantrip   the   laggards   call 

Fame; 
Some    end   is   beholden,   all   glamour    and 

golden,  let  the  Old  Oath  embolden — 
Here's  to  the  Name  ! 

And  here's  to  the  Way,  God  grant,  a  Long  Day 
Till  we  clear  the  fair  earth  of  such  dastards  as 

they; 
For  the  end's  Armageddon,  which  the  others 

ha'    bled   on,  by   the  Name    still    we're 

led  on — 
Here's  to  the  Way  ! 

And  here's  to  the  Pace,  dismay  not  a  trace, 
Outriding  the  Fiend  in  the  Devil's  own  race  ; 
Though    hot   be   the   spurring — on  !    fresh, 
undermining,  the  Romp  is  but  stirring — 
Here's  to  the  Pace  ! 


28 


A  Song  for  the  Lull  in  the  Fight 


The  blue  has  ashed  in  the  turquoise  sky, 
And  dimmed  to  a  hodden-grey  ; 

But  the  Stars  review \  while  I  and  you 
But  wait  for  anotJier  day. 

And   here's   to   the  Hearts,  the  longing   still 

smarts 
For  an  open -aired  swing  at  their  Baal-gotten 

arts ; 
But  the   cravens  are  hidden — out,  knaves  ! 

when  you're  bidden  that  the  Path  shall  be 

ridden — 
Here's  to  the  Hearts  ! 

And  here's   the   Reward — it's   to  each  at  the 
ford, 

Where   Life   takes   from   Death  the  old   two- 
handed  sword — 

And  the  belt  we  are  lighting,  the  standards 
we're  righting — the  Reward  is  the  Fight- 
ing !— 

Here's  the  Reward ! 

But  it '  s  time  to  pause  when  the  struggle 's 

done, 

And  not  when  a  day  is  born, 
And  the  dead  leaves  lisp,  and  the  ground 

treads  crisp, 
And  there  is  the  new-washed  morn. 


29 


Songs  of  Good  fighting 

For  the  Hope  that  Stirs  in  the  Heart  of 

Things 

Casts  her  Glove  in  the  teeth  of  Doubt. 
Here's  to  the  Strength  that  the  Old  Oath 

brings, 
So  on  !  And  we  'II fight  it  out. 


THE   SONG  OF  MORGAN'S   MEN 
(1670) 

SAILING  to  Hell,  the  sea  and  her  spell, 
Croon  to  the  timbers  a  dolorous  knell — 
An   issue   with  Doom.     Grant  the  knave 

room, 

We'll  tear  out  his   heart  in  the  shadowless 
gloom. 

Sailing  to  Hell,  Panama  fell, 
And  Spaniards  to  God  their  scurvy  tales 
tell! 


Let  God  lash  the  sea,  the  ship  staggers  free, 
Does  He  think  then  to  frighten   such  callants 

as  we  ? 

Pass  rum  for  a  round — what  masterless  hound 
Refuses     to     drink     when     the      sacrament's 

downed  ? 

Sailing  to  Hell,  Panama  fell, 
And  Spaniards  to  God  their  scurvy  tales 
tell! 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

And  here's  to  the  Pit,  a  rouse  that  is  fit, 
Fingers    on    Fate's    throat    till    the    braggart 

cries  quit — 

Hell  bratted  the  pup  !   Roysterers,  up  ! 
And  drain  in  your  drinking  each  drop  in  the 

cup  ! 

Sailing  to  Hell,  Panama  fell, 
And  Spaniards  to  God  their  scurvy  tales 
tell. 

—1896 


A  SONG  OF  THREE  SEASONS 

WHEN  the  smell  from  off  the  Sea  is  the 
best  of  things  that  be, 
And  the  nackered  Night  lies  ready 

for  a  kiss ; 
When   the   Rose's   crimson   choir  chants  the 

treble  of  desire 

To  the  distance-sifted  violings  of  bliss ; 
When  Delight  is  a  flashing  pageantry  : 
This  is  the  Time  of  Life  to  Be. 

For  this  is  the  Time  to  Be,  my  lads  ; 

Here's  a  cup  to  the  Time  to  Be. 
And  here1  s  to  a  rout  with  a  hoyden  star, 
For  the  heart  is  moored  to  a  moonbeam  bar — 

Toss  it  off— to  the  Time  to  Be  / 

When  the  Fates  from  out  their  path  turn  the 

phials  of  their  wrath, 

And  the  Sturdy  get  a  buffet  from  behind  ; 
When  we  know  that  gins  are  laid,  and  in  silent 

ambuscade 
They  are  marshalling — the  Demons  and  their 

kind; 

When  the  stars  seem  strange  that  once  we  knew : 
This  is  the  Time  of  Life  to  Do. 


33 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

Yes  !  this  is  the  Time  to  Do,  Strong  Hearts, 

In  silence — the  Time  to  Do. 
Here1  s  the  teeth  set  firm  and  the  long  sword 

bared, 
With  never  a  thought  how  the  Others  fared — 

Glass  up  now — the  Time  to  Do  ! 

When  we  huddle  to  the  fire  and  watch  them 

piling  higher 

The  last  feeble  sand-lees  in  the  glass  ; 
When  the  rabble  crowds  without,  with  a  jostle 

and  a  shout, 

Are  singing  of  Life's  largesse  as  they  pass ; 
When  the  Wind  has  blurred  the  trail  through 

the  snow : 
This  is  the  Time  of  Life  to  Know. 

Ah,  this  is  the  Time  to  Know,  Old  Friend, 

Will  ye  pledge  it — the  Time  to  Know  ? 
For  the  shrouded  minutes  are  ticking  short, 
And  a  lone  dog  howls  in  the  Inner  Court- 
Here' s  a  last  one — the  Time  to  Know  ! 


34 


THE   SONG   OF   SAWKINS'   MEN. 
(1680) 


A 


N  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth, 
Valiant  or  Suckling  we  give  them  no  ruth. 
Quarter — we  know  not  the  meaning,  for- 
sooth ! 
An  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth. 


Throw  the  dead  Dons  upon  the  white  Dunes, 
Scuttle  the  galleons,  seize  the  doubloons ; 
We  know  the  low  lilt  the  Summer  Sea  croons  : 
Throw  the  dead    Dons  upon    the  white 
Dunes. 

With  cutlass  for  sceptre  the  Sea  is  our  State 
And  Death  is  our  portion,  come  soon  or  come 

late  ; 

So  meet  it  half-way  then,  leave  Cowards  to  wait — 
With  cutlass  for  sceptre  the  Sea  is  our  State. 

That  Saxon  and  Briton  may  ravish  the  Main, 
And  purge  from  the  waters  the  pennon  of  Spain, 
We've  Death  for  our  Mistress  and  Fate  for  our 

Thane, 
That  Saxon  and  Briton  may  ravish  the  Main. 


35 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

Yon's  a  town  on  the  Mainland  where  Jesuits 

hoard, 
Where  trophies   of  temples   by  Spaniards  are 

stored, 
We'll  have  it  this  fortnight  despite  the  Good 

Lord- 
Yon' s    a   town    on   the   Mainland    where 
Jesuits  hoard. 

Give  a  rouse  to  the  Morrow  when  first  we  attack, 
With  a  Ho  !  from  the  Hearts  for  the  joy  of  the 

Sack; 
Then  from  each  and  from  all  of  this  Worshipful 

Pack 
Give  a  rouse  to  the  Morrow  when  first  we 

attack. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  FREEBOOTERS 

"    A    ND  how  did  the  Dead  Man  live  his  life, 
J-\  Mistress  Sea  f  ' ' 

*  •">"  The  Dead  Man' s  life  with  blood  was 
red,  as  the  curtains  o'er  Death 's 
bridal  bed, 

And  the  hands  of  the  Slain  have  cursed  his 
head 

From  out  of  me" 

Then  here's  to   the  Bight  where   the    Sea- 
wolves  be, 
Here's  to  the  Salt  Sea's  liturgy : 

Yo  !  for  the  song  that  the  Dead  Man  sang, 
Ho !  for  the  gibbet  that  feels  him  hang  ! 
And  he  bows  to  the  moon  while  the  shadows 

flee  ; 
Here's  to  the  Salt  Sea's  liturgy  ! 

Some  for   the  Pennon   of  the  Good  Queen 

Bess, 

Ours  is  a  service — masterless. 
Tho'  Death  is  the  Port  on  the  Devil's  cruise, 
And  the  timbers  strain  in  the  Good  Ship's 

thews, 

Life  is  as  free  as  a  hawk  from  the  jess, 
Ours  is  a  service — masterless. 


37 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

One  is  gone — but  the  rest  are  ten, 

Up  with  the  glasses,  Gentlemen  ! 

Up  !  with  a  rouse  to  me  Dead  Man — he 
Still  with  the  Band  keeps  company. 

To  one  more  brawl  on  the  Sea,  and  then— 

But  up  with  the  glasses,  Gentlemen  ! 

"  And  what  shall  light  the  Dead  Man's  Feast, 

Mistress  Sea  f  ' ' 
"  The  Table's  spread  when  Death  is  done, 

this  is  the  light  that  shines  thereon  : 
The  Eyes  out-plucked  from  the  Slaughtered 
One 

For  such  as  he  f" 


A   BUCCANEER   TOAST 

TO  the  Fiend  of  the  Seven  Seas, 
To  the  Print  of  the  Dead  Man's  Thumb, 
To  a  Curse  at  Death  with  a  dying  breath, 
Here's  Death  in  a  Draught  of  Rum  ! 

Here1 's  to  Hell,  toss  it  off  in  a  quaff,  lads, 
Drink  the  health  of  the  Devil  and  laugh, 

lads, 
Pledge  the  tale  of  the    Wheat  and  the 

Chaff,  lads, 

Here' s  to  Hell ! 

To  the  Dead  in  the  Dismal  Sea, 

To  the  Bleaching  Bones  on  the  Beach, 

To  a  hate-born  stroke  of  the  Valiant  Folk, 
And  the  Tunes  that  the  Sea  can  teach ! 

Here's  the  Sea,  for  her  grey  clutch  has 

gotye, 

May  her  salt  kisses  poison  and  rot  ye, 
By  the  Soul  of  the  Beast  who  begot  ye, 
Here" 's  the  Sea  ! 

To  a  slash  at  the  heart  of  a  Don, 

To  the  Port  that  never  may  be, 
Drink  deep  to  the  Ghosts  of  the  Spanish  Hosts, 

Who  loom  in  the  Mists  of  the  Sea ! 


39 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

Here's  to  Hell,  toss  it  off  in  a  quaff, 
lads  °ftke  Devil^lt 

Pledge 'the  tale  of  the    Wheat  and  the 
Lnaff,  lads, 

Here' s  to  Hell ! 

—1893 


OF  THE  GREAT  LAKES  AND 
THE  SEA 

AS  SAID    THE  SEA  :— 

NOW,  list  to  me,  said  the  Cresting  Sea, 
ye  wastrel  spawn  of  land, 
Ere  that  ye  claim,  so  confident,  kin  to 

the  Master's  band  ; 
For  I  am  grey  as  Time  is  grey,  for  I  am  the 

Twin  of  Time. 
I  have  seen  the  haze  of  the  Elder  Days,  I  have 

looked  on  the  ancient  rime, 
I  have  battled  with  man,  I  have  battled  with 

cliff,  I  have  battled  with  ships  and  dune, 
At   the  Altar  of  Fate  I  pledge  my  hate   that 

none  may  be  immune. 
Though  I  be  grey  with  baffled  deeds,  yet  red 

is  the  race  I  ran, 
No  rest  I  take  my  thirst  to  slake  till  the  Earth 

be  purged  of  man. 
From   this,   my  end,  no  force  can  bend,    no 

power  my  lust  can  curb, 
To  wrack  the  timbered  ships  of  man,  pitiless, 

acerb. 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

I  have  glutted  and  gorg  -\  on  the  meat  of  them 

that  take  to  the  Sea  ir,  ships, 
And  many  there  be  who  yet  through  me  shall 

kiss  the  grey-white  lips. 
And  I  shall  own  no  shackle  nor  clamp,  nor  feel 

no  yoke  nor  goad — 
Highway  to  Hell,  where  the  buoys  knell,  I  am 

the  chosen  road. 
Born  of  a  birth  with  Time  was  I  and  we  yet 

feel  our  youth, 
Nor  age  shall  teach  each  unto  each,  the  lilt  of 

the  Song  of  Ruth  ; 
For  wide  is  the  swale  and  strong  and  hale,  and 

the  sea-folk  know  their  kin, 
And  I  am  the  gate  to  God's  Estate  and  look 

that  they  enter  in. 
This  is  the  plan  since  we  began,  Time  and  I,  to 

teach, 
And  show  to  man  his  farther  span,  the  length 

of  his  manhood's  reach  ; 
So  I  cozen  some  to  the  well-earned  death,  but 

some  I  show  at  a  stroke, 
For  all  shall  need  some  teaching  ere  they  fare 

to  the  Thrice-tried  Folk. 


Of  the  Great  Lakes  and  the  Sea 

The  Long  Dead  Stars  have  whispered  me  the 

secrets  of  the  Pit, 
And  this  I  know  that  there  they  go,  the  thief, 

the  hypocrite, 
And  them  that  lurk  by  woman's  smile  and  idle 

out  their  days, 
And  them  that  drown  in  the  sluggish  town  nor 

know  the  Master's  ways. 
But  the  Utter  Garth  shall  be  their  hearth,  who 

have  learned  the  things  I  show — 
That  with   breast  to  wave  they  yet  may  save 

their  manhood  ere  they  go. 
And  I  have  married  with  the  Morn  that  men 

may  come  of  it, 
And  I  have  married  with  the  Night  that  death 

be  fair  and  fit. 
So  if  ye  claim  for  kin  of  mine,  speak  quick  !  my 

tale  is  spun, 
I  have  marked  some  men  for  the  Hall  to-night 

and  the  dark  has  just  begun. 


AND    THE  LAKES  SPAKE:— 


W 


E  HAVE  done  thy  deeds  in  little,  we 

have  writ  thy  tale  in  small, 
Yet  are  we  of  one  Mother,  yet  are 
we  of  a  blood  : 


43 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 


Close-irked  by  scarp  and  headland,  held  hard, 

the  great  cliff's  thrall, 

Yet  has  our  song  been  as  thy  song,  oh  Lord 
of  the  Wider  Flood. 

Erie  her  low-lilting  surge  sings  to  sedge 

and  shore, 
Superior  is  murm'rous  with  the  bass  of 

mighty  things, 
All  the  winds  from  Michigan  croon  it  o'er 

and  o'er, 

Ontario  and  Huron  are  lush  with  whis- 
perings. 

Riant  through  a  continent,   blustrous    at 

our  will, 
Syllabling  a  summer  song,    chaunting 

runes  of  wrath, 
Lissom  with  limpidity,  purling  Peace  Be 

Still, 

Writhen  sore  with  ravening,    Death  is 
in  our  path. 

We  have  thy  pride  in  little,  we  have   gorged 

our  maw  in  small, 

Master  of  Man,  or  Servant,  as  freaks  our  way- 
ward whim, 

Each  to  his  meed  fulfilling  the  Summons  and 
the  Call, 


44 


Of  the  Great  Lakes  and  the  Sea 


For  we,  as  Thou,  oh  Larger  Sea,  bow  to  the 
will  of  Him. 

Erie   wattled   with   the   sun,    guards   her 

garnered  dead, 
Superior  wards  her  secrets  well  in  her 

unfathomed  breast, 
A  winding  sheet  is  Michigan  over  many 

spread, 

Ontario  and  Huron  are  vaward  in  the 
quest. 

And  when  forespent  with  Time,  his  race, 

it  yet  may  come  to  be, 
'Twas  thine  the  wider  scope  and  pace, 

that  He  has  choiced  the  Sea, 
His  palimpsest   where  He  loves  best   to 

screen  His  power  and  will — 
Yet  may  you  see,  in  smaller  script,  our 
story  written  still. 


BUT  THE  ELDERS  OF  ALL  TIME 
SHALL  SAY:— 

\EOFFS  of  the  Mighty  Hand 

Here,  beyond,  above  ! 
In  the  Great  Design,  no  not  one  line 
Can  ye  ken  the  meaning  of. 


45 


Songs  of  Good  Fighting 

Braggarts  ye  are,  with  Time, 

Prating  of  what  may  be, 
While  the  Stars  stand  nigh  to  give  the  lie 

Thy  sparse  cosmogony. 

Sib  are  the  Lakes  and  Sea, 

Sib  are  the  Sky  and  Beach, 
The  Land  is  kin  and  each  has  been 

A  brother  unto  each. 

The  dust  of  the  world  is  One 

One  is  the  Sea  and  Sod , 
The  Night  is  one  with  the  Urgent  Sun 

In  villeinage  to  God. 

Peace  to  the  Lashing  Lakes, 
And  peace  to  the  Braggart  Sea, 

For  each  repeat  the  Paraclete 
His  rede,  unwittingly. 

What  ye  have  done  in  deeds  ? 

What  ye  have  done  to  men  ? 
Ye  may  not  know,  the  plan  reads  slow — 

Ye  know  not  how  nor  when. 

An  embassage  alike, 

The  Lakes,  the  Sky,  the  Sea, 
As  on  they  fare  to  Him  they  bear 

An  equal  ministry. 


46 


Of  the  Great  Lakes  and  the  Sea 

Master  of  All  that  are  ! 

Master  of  All  which  were  ! 
Thy  churls  forget,  while  we  do  yet 

Awa^t  the  Vintager ! 

1898 


47 


ENVOY. 

IF  one  could  hear  aright  the  murmurings 
Of  some   shore -stranded   sea -shell   as   it 
sings, 
It  might  be  then  that  he  would  come  to 

know 
An  inkling  of  the  Planner' s  purposing s. 

The  weary  shuttle  can  no  more  divine 
Of  how  its  thread  looks  in  the  whole  design, 
Than  we  poor  shuttles  in  the  hand  of  Fate 
Can  fathom  of  the  plan  a  single  line. 

1896 


48 


- 


NON-CIRCULATING  BOOK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


